


You Can't Always Get What You Want

by Antheas_Blackberry



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Caring, Consensual Sex, Don't copy to another site, Drabbles, Drug Use, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Enthusiastic Consent, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 14:43:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 5,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18448709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antheas_Blackberry/pseuds/Antheas_Blackberry
Summary: Various (and very, very old) drabbles and short pieces of fan fiction written many, many moons ago. All seasons pretty much covered, but a lot focusing on the first 4.





	1. Up until then . . .

**“Up until then I’d been at newspapers, starting after college at Brown, on the police beat at the Albany Times Union and moving on to the Bergen County Record in New Jersey.”**

House half-heartedly listened to the patient giving him her detailed CV, as opposed to something useful, like her symptoms, or the reason why she was in the clinic in the first place. He inwardly rolled his eyes, palmed a Vicodin, and remembered why he always sent Cameron to do the patient history. Boring.


	2. There was nothing like that

**“There was nothing like that- just an empty bottle of Poland Spring water, a gold box of Godiva chocolates and a wet sea foam green towel snaking over a copy of People magazine.”**

Wilson breathed out the breath that he didn’t realise he was holding when House came down the hall, clad only in jeans. House studied him over, like he was cramming for a final exam. He finally raised an eyebrow in question at Wilson.

“You, you’d di- didn’t answer the door,” Wilson managed to stammer out, while rubbing the back of his neck.

“I was getting dressed. Cripple here; it takes me a bit longer to manage you know,” House said sarcastically.

Wilson stared back at him, blankly.

House finally said, almost too softly to hear, “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”


	3. She needed to be prepared for a long day

**“She needed to be prepared for a long day.”**

Cameron inwardly groaned when House came in more disheveled that usual, along with a box of tissues. He was always more of an ass when his allergies first kicked in. So, she busied herself making him some black walnut and ginger tea, whilst trying to ignore the painfully loud sneezes coming from House’s office. Once the tea was ready she carried it, and another box of tissues into his office. 

House looked miserable, she noted as she entered the office. He eyed her cautiously as she approached with the tea and tissues. He sounded just as miserable when he asked if they had a patient. She responded with a no. He nodded, and went off in another fit of sneezes. Finally, he was able to get out, “Good, I’lb be id here dying.”

Cameron rolled her eyes and turned to leave, as Wilson came in the door. They passed each other and she gave him a ‘better you than me look’ as she left. 

Wilson studied House and tossed him a bottle of antihistamines. 

“Could you try swallowing them this time, instead of snorting them?”

House croaked out a laugh as he opened the bottle. “Thered’s do way I could snort theb eveb ib I wabted do.” He paused, stared up at the light for a second, and sneezed dramatically. 

Wilson chuckled at his friend’s misery. “Bless. I’ve got clinic duty, so I’ll see you later.”

House nodded as he tossed a handful of pills down, followed by a swallow of tea. 

“And be nice to Cameron. She was kind enough to make you tea. Not that you deserve it.”

House chortled as Wilson headed out. He then began to pile up all of the files that needed discharge summaries written so he could give them to Cameron. He had to get his amusement somehow.


	4. I figured I’d do better leaving now and calling or coming back later

**“I figured I’d do better leaving now and calling or coming back later.”**

Wilson watched House sleep for a few minutes while he contemplated what to do. They had fallen into bed with each other; in the same way they fell into step while walking together. It was terrifying and wonderful all at the same time, and Wilson’s thoughts were racing a million miles an hour. 

Wilson finally decided to leave. As he turned to leave, he felt a hand on his arm. He turned to face House, who was looking at him with those intense blue eyes. “Stay,” House said. And he stayed.


	5. After an hour of work, my brain stalled

**“After an hour of work, my brain stalled.”**

And as if on cue, House crashed through my office door without knocking. He immediately went into a tirade about his latest clinic patients, and how Cuddy wasn’t wearing a low-cut top that day, so he had to resort to his imagination. 

So, I put my pen down, and listened to House blather on like it was the most important thing in the world. And for a moment, it was, and I was content.


	6. I had no sense at all of what she really was like

**“I had no sense at all of what she really was like.”**

All I knew about her really, without knowing the specifics, was that she was like me in so many ways. But I didn’t know how she liked her coffee, or if she played the piano, or her favourite song. 

I had never gotten to ‘know’ her. After the funeral, once everyone had gone and we were both reasonably drunk, I sat down next to Wilson on the sofa. And I quietly said, “Tell me about Amber.”


	7. I climbed the stoop and rang the doorbell

**“I climbed the stoop and rang the doorbell.”**

After a moment or two, Wilson opened the door. His hair and sweatshirt were rumpled, and his eyes were rimmed in red. He gaped in surprise at seeing me at the door, with good reason. I was still in the hospital gown, with the addition of some scrub bottoms, and my leather jacket. 

“Wh-what are you doing here?” 

I leaned unsteadily on my cane, looking down at the concrete step. Technicolor memories flashed at light speed through my brain, images that would be burned inside my retinas forever. Unconsciously, my eyes filled with tears, and I managed to croak out once again, “I’m so sorry.”


	8. Saving the dresser and wardrobe for last, I took a look through the bookcase next.

**Saving the dresser and wardrobe for last, I took a look through the bookcase next.**

Thirteen ran her fingers along the spines of the books. She wondered which Amber’s were and which were Wilson’s. She figured most of them had to be Amber’s, since Wilson hadn’t been living here that long. And from what she had heard about Wilson, he wasn’t one to hang on to personal items. The few items he had were in his office, or in a dusty storage facility somewhere, lying in wait for a new home, for a new ex-Mrs. Wilson.


	9. Underneath, though, I could detect a swelling panic

**Underneath, though, I could detect a swelling panic.**

If he was panicking, how much hope could I hold on to? I blanked out, only to be brought back by the determined sound of his voice. And when I looked into his eyes, I knew he would do anything and everything in his power to make the world right again.

It wasn’t until much later, that I realised the depths of his sacrifice.


	10. I got the first hang up call at six-thirty PM that night

**I got the first hang up call at six-thirty PM that night.**

House took a long swallow of scotch and ignored the phone. He knew who it was, and why the phone was ringing. He was trying to fake him out, get him to make one more mistake. He pulled the bottle of oxy out of his pocket and downed the rest. The ringing stopped.


	11. Two teardrops of wine

At some point Wilson had abandoned drinking from the wine glass and reverted to drinking straight from the bottle. He wished he had something stronger, but even in the aftermath of Chase’s bachelor party all he could dredge up was wine. He smiled wistfully at the memory of a happier time, even though he should have realised something was wrong then. Very wrong. Of course he never saw House reclining in his tub talking to “Amber.” He was wandering around Princeton in his underwear, drunk off his ass. 

 

He ran his hand absently through his hair as he took another swig and tried to forget. He won’t, he can’t.

 

When he woke up in the morning, awkwardly positioned on the couch, he was cotton mouthed and hung over. He saw the wine bottle on its side on the floor. Two teardrops of wine shone perfectly on the hardwood. 

 

For the first time in a long time, Amber wasn’t his first thought upon waking.

 

It was the look of longing and utter terror in the last gaze House gave him before the heavy, old door closed in front of him that crossed his mind first. Wilson’s tears fell and mixed with the drops of wine on the floor. Outside, the rain began to soak the ground as the heavens grieved along with him.


	12. The pain was like an anvil

The pain was either like an anvil, or it crept in slowly, like cats in the dark of night. This evening it was like an anvil. House saw every quarter hour that passed, as he waited for the Vicodin to kick in, over and over again. He contemplated the metal box, but knew he couldn’t reach for it, not in this condition. He debated calling Wilson, but he didn’t want to break what had just been rebuilt. Instead he recalled all the bones in the human body in alphabetical order, as he waited for the agony to pass him by.


	13. At least she's good to look at

Based on his outward appearance one would think Gregory House was not a disciplined man. Tufts of hair were standing on end. It was the end of the day and he sat at his piano, a melancholy tune on his mind and fingertips.

 

While not a characteristic he paid heed to himself, he did appreciate it in others. His team, with the exception of Taub, was attractive. He fantasised about Cuddy, and of course Wilson was as beautiful of a man as they come.

 

As he continued to play the soulful tune, he was grateful his mother had encouraged him to keep at his lessons and playing. Lost in the past for a moment, he suddenly had the feeling he was being watched. He slowly opened his eyes to find Amber at his side. ‘As hallucinations go’, he thought, ‘at least she’s good to look at.’


	14. I've made my decision

Wilson barged into House's office sometime after Cuddy had left with the methadone dose untouched. “That will come back to haunt you.” He was exasperated and tired of this routine. 

 

House looked up from staring at his shoes. 

 

“Last night you were angry I took this chance, and now you are mad I gave it up? Give it a rest. Go away and leave me alone.”

 

“House.” Wilson sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please, don't do this, don't make this mistake.” 

 

“What is done is done, Wilson. I've made my decision.”


	15. I never said I needed protecting, from you or anyone else

Wilson entered House's office to find the diagnostician knocking back a tumbler of bourbon. “I can't protect you from that,” he said, gesturing to the nearly empty bottle. 

 

House shrugged and refilled his glass. “I never said I needed protecting, from you or anyone else.”

 

Wilson approached him and then stood before House, hands on hips. “No? Maybe you need protection from yourself.” 

 

Wilson snatched the tumbler from House's hand, drained it, and placed it on the desk. “Let's go home, House. Let's just go home.” 

 

House dejectedly rose from his chair and silently followed Wilson.


	16. In that case, steam room?

House returned from his run out in the August heat. Sweat ran rivulets down his face, arms, and legs. He tossed his iPod on to the couch and kicked off his sneakers. He padded into the kitchen in search of hydration. 

 

He found Wilson sitting at the butcher-block table, typing fiercely into his laptop. This occurrence wasn’t odd, since Wilson was staying with him while he recovered. What was odd was the fact that Wilson was wearing a surgical mask.

 

“Halloween’s not for another few months,” House remarked casually, as he opened the fridge and took out a bottle of water. He gulped half of it down, and then ran the cold bottle across his forehead, seeking relief in the coolness.

 

Wilson tilted his head so he could face House. “Ifikj I’m cming dn wth a cod.” 

 

House blinked a few times, trying to process what Wilson said. 

 

“Will you take that thing off, so I can understand what the hell you are saying?” 

 

Wilson sighed, and pulled the mask down. He cleared his throat and said, “I said that I think I’m coming down with a cold. I don’t want you to get it, you have rehab to get through.” 

 

To prove his point, Wilson sneezed, as if to say, “see.”

 

“Bless,” House mumbled quietly. “So, symptoms?” 

 

He drew an imaginary whiteboard in the air and prepared to “write.” 

 

Wilson folded his arms across his chest. “House, I’m a doctor too. I think I know when I have a cold.”

 

House rolled his eyes. “But I’m the diagnostician, and you’re just a wonder boy oncologist,” he remarked. 

 

Wilson sighed again, knowing if he didn’t give in, House would irritate him the rest of the day.

 

“Fine. I’ve been sneezing and my nose is stuffy. It’s a cold. Can I get back to what I was doing now?” Wilson gestured to the laptop that he had been working on and the stack of paperwork beside it.

 

“One more test,” House replied. He crossed the short distance between them, and gently ran his thumb across Wilson’s sinuses, looking into his eyes, while he simultaneously caressed the side of his face. Wilson sniffled, still trying to get his point across.

 

“Your throat hurt?” 

 

“No, it’s a bit scratchy, but it doesn’t hurt.” 

 

House continued to peer into Wilson’s eyes, slowly stroking his cheek, and then gently leaned in for a kiss.

 

“House, what are you doing? I told you I was sick!” Wilson became exasperated as House began to laugh, practically bent over in gales of laughter. 

 

Wilson stood up, hands on hips, trying to figure out what was so funny. 

 

“Wilson, you’re fine. It’s allergies. I noticed it in the air the other day when I was out running.” 

 

Wilson processed that information for a moment and then, eyes sparkling with mischief, posed a question to House. “Well, in that case, steam room?”


	17. For just a minute there I was dreaming

_For just a minute there I was dreaming  
for just a minute it was all so real  
for just a minute she was standing there, with me_

 

When Wilson woke from his dream, he was breathing heavily, and his thin t-shirt was drenched in sweat. It took him a moment to realise he wasn’t standing along the shoreline with Amber; because he was sure, for a split second that he could smell the ocean.


	18. A strangled smile fell from your face

_A strangled smile fell from your face  
It kills me that I hurt you this way   
The worst part is that I didn't even know   
Now there's a million reasons for you to go   
But if you can find a reason to stay   
I'll do whatever it takes   
To turn this around   
I know what's at stake   
I know that I've let you down   
And if you give me a chance   
Believe that I can change   
I'll keep us together whatever it takes ___

__

__House did everything he could think of, short of getting down on his knees and begging forgiveness. He’s paid for lunches, got Wilson’s favourite beer to be delivered from Canada, and arranged for his fellows to cover his clinic duty. None of this made a difference. Wilson just stared back at him with vacant eyes. Finally, realising what was at stake, House once again made the trip upstairs. When Wilson visited him two days later, his eyes had regained some of the warmth they once had. It wasn’t like old times, but it was a start._ _


	19. I was feeling insecure

_I was feeling insecure,  
You might not love me any more,   
I was shivering inside,   
I was shivering inside,   
I was trying to catch your eyes,   
Thought that you were trying to hide,   
I was swallowing my pain,   
I was swallowing my pain. _

 

The memories from that day were jumbled up like pieces of a brand-new jigsaw puzzle. There were two memories that stood out, like a lone sailboat in the ocean. The first one was when he told Wilson there was no hope; even he couldn’t keep the tears from falling, knowing he had just broken his heart. The second one was when he woke up in the ICU and saw Wilson standing just in the doorway, defeated, with the weight of the world on his shoulders. And then he walked away. It was as if the world stopped turning on its axis. Then all there was, was darkness.


	20. Cold

House and Wilson had spent most of the day indoors. Wilson went out once to attempt to clear his car off, but realised while he was out there braving the elements that it was a rather futile attempt. So he dragged his wet and sorry ass back inside, where it was warm and toasty.

 

House was sitting on the couch, legs propped up on the coffee table when Wilson came inside. Wilson pulled off his boots and hung up his coat before joining him. House flipped channels in a bored manner. “It’s cold,” he said. Wilson sighed with feigned annoyance.


	21. Medication

House sat on the couch, an old blanket around his shoulders. Tissues were scattered on the floor and coffee table. He shuddered and coughed harshly. He had just managed to bring the coughing under control when Wilson came in, laden with bags from the pharmacy. House looked up at him pathetically, sniffling. Wilson came over and sat down next to House, and took out tissues, cold medication, cough drops, and House’s Vicodin. House grabbed at the box of tissues, opening them, and pulling out a handful. He blew his nose desperately, which in turn caused him to bend over in a fit of sneezes. Wilson rubbed circles on House’s back, trying to be comforting. “Bless you, all right now?” House answered with a painful sounding cough and a death glare toward Wilson.


	22. Fever

Wilson was burning with fever. He tossed and turned in the sweat-soaked sheets, unable to find a comfortable position. Every fiber of his body ached and burned. He longed for sleep. House came in from the store where he had been picking up juice, tissues and soup, and checked on Wilson. 

 

He saw the state Wilson was in and returned with a washcloth and placed it on Wilson’s forehead. Wilson shivered from the contact of the cool cloth and sneezed violently. House pulled the blankets over Wilson. “Bless. Try and rest, while I make you some soup,” House said congestedly. Wilson had done the same for him last week.


	23. Enough

Wilson sat among the packing boxes, tape, and long forgotten medical journals. Amber's stuff had already been taken care of, only his own belongings were left. He didn't care about or need any of it and was almost tempted to just leave it all behind. 

 

He sighed and his head fell into his hands. He could feel the tears building up and falling, sliding between his fingers. He wondered if House was ok, whether he was feeling like his world was gone too, but quickly tried to push those thoughts out of his mind, to no avail.

 

He could almost picture House, in his apartment, alone with a bottle of scotch and his Vicodin. Part of him wanted to go over there and make sure he was still breathing, or at least call Cuddy to check on him. His mind flashed over the sadness, and for some reason focused on a happier Christmas eve, Chinese food and laughter. 

 

He shut his eyes and willed the tears to stop falling. Enough. There had been enough of these tears to last him a lifetime. Wilson picked up the packing tape and kept on.


	24. Forget

My scars are visible; the twisted remnants of my thigh, two bullet wounds, a scorched hand. Wilson’s wounds are deep, hidden beneath the surface. They’re only visible if you look into his wounded eyes. 

That night keeps haunting me. All I wanted was to drink to forget; forget feeling, forget loving you. I forgot so well that I called you looking for a ride home, and instead got. . . well that’s not one ending I expected or could have imagined.


	25. Anguish

The simplest tasks are daunting, even listening to the radio evokes a breakdown. All I can think is has he ever felt like this? Does House know what he has done? Does he feel badly, does he feel remorse? My wounds are so deep and so fresh; that even the most potent drugs can’t relieve the anguish I’m feeling.


	26. Dream

My wounds are visible, and everybody knows about them. No matter how I try to bury them with Vicodin and booze, they never go away. The scar on my neck has faded with time. What is visible is hidden beneath the ever-present stubble. It’s still there and a constant reminder of what I had, for a fleeting moment. I dream of running and my pulse racing; sweating. I dream of feeling alive.


	27. It should have been me

If I had just tried harder, remembered a different number, drank one less scotch, would this feel different? Would this be different? Would I still be alone? It’s ironic, she saved me, but I was unable to save her. I was unable to do the one thing he needed me to do. I sacrificed the one thing I have left for him, and it didn’t make a difference. It should have been me. After everything he’s done for me, it should have been me.


	28. Forgive

When you showed up hand in hand with her, it felt like someone had sucker punched me in the gut. It was at that exact moment I realised . . . I realised I love you. I can never give you back what I had no right to take from you. I can only ask that you forgive me, because I will never forgive myself.


	29. Crescendo

House’s head pounds out a steady, incessant rhythm of pain. In his mind, memories run black and white, with snippets of colour, over and over, like a long forgotten movie reel. It beats, pounds, and comes to a crescendo, like right before the end of Sgt. Pepper. He wants to open his eyes, but the last time he did it only brought pain in the form of Wilson’s tear-filled eyes.

 

His mouth is as dry as the Gobi, and tastes of long forgotten scotch and Vicodin. He steadies himself internally and opens his eyes. There is no one there. There is a cup in front of him, and he grapples with it in order to get it to his mouth. He wonders how long he has been out. His thirst isn’t quenched.

 

He shuts his eyes again, and the movie reel in his mind plays the same film. He wonders how long it will be, until he can close his eyes without seeing her dying, without seeing Wilson’s heart breaking into tiny, little pieces. He wonders if Wilson will forgive him. He knows he can never forgive himself. The movie plays on.


	30. Maybe he should just go home

He sits in the coffee shop, aware yet not aware of his surroundings. He watches without seeing as the commuters come and go. He hears the sharp click-clack of heels, the tinkling of change as it is dropped into the tip jar, the whirring of the espresso machine. The coffee smells earthy, of another continent, of a world far away. He looks down into his own hardly drained cup and silently sighs. Today is going to be his first day back at work since, well since.

 

The unread paper sits in front of him, as he stares vacantly at the people in line. Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe he should just go home. Everyone would understand. Moments pass, and the line trickles down to a few. That’s when he sees House sitting on the other side of the coffee shop, quietly regarding him. House nods at him, stiffly stands up, and walks over to him. 

 

Wilson doesn’t move, just watches House curiously as he stands there. House fidgets with his cane for a second and then finally speaks softly. “I thought you could use a friend.” Wilson looks up at House, sees the fear and the unspoken plea in his eyes.

 

Wilson stands up and joins House, and the two walk slowly, shoulder to shoulder, to face what the day will bring.


	31. Uncharacteristically quiet

Wilson slid his hand around House's throbbing erection, taking his time to slowly slide up and down the shaft. He could hear House breathing in his ear, the pace of his heartbeat quickening. Wilson enjoyed House like this, totally submissive and uncharacteristically quiet. 

 

Wilson continued his ministrations, listening for any change in House's breathing, a clue to letting him know that House was close. A barely imperceptible moan escaped House's mouth, and Wilson knew. Wilson slid his hand up and down faster, until the sticky-sweetness of cum covered his hand. 

 

House's heartbeat slowed, as Wilson wiped his hand on House's discarded t-shirt. House's lips met Wilson's in thanks and need and in love and for all the things House would never say, but Wilson knew were there.


	32. Long Night

It was getting late, and his leg had been bordering on the unbearable for the past two days. He reclined on the couch rubbing and rubbing his mangled thigh and alternating heat and ice for as much as he could tolerate it. He checked the time to see if he could take some more Vicodin and decided unless he wanted to go into acute liver failure, he needed to wait a little longer. 

 

He grabbed the remote off the coffee table and flicked around the channels trying to find something to occupy his mind and to keep it off the locked metal box on the top of the bookshelf. He settled on _Paris Hilton is my new BFF_ in hopes of there being some hot chicks, but even that was unable to deviate his attention from the agonizing pain. 

 

He debated calling Wilson but he really didn’t want him knowing how much pain he was experiencing right now. Wilson would ingrain himself and insist on an MRI or admitting him and blood tests and he was just too tired to deal with that kind of caring. 

 

House wiped the sweat off his brow and put the ice pack back on his leg. He picked up his very light bottle of Vicodin and counted the remaining pills and sighed. It looked like he was going to have to talk to Wilson either way. But not tonight. He tossed back three pills and swallowed, shutting his eyes and waited for the pain to be bearable enough for him to move to the bedroom to lie awake, alternating counting the cracks in the ceiling and the beating of his heart in his ears.


	33. Mid-March

Wilson drags him into the bedroom. House is all long lines and pinstripes, angles and no curves. The flat plane of his stomach lightly dusted with fine hair, is smooth under his hands. Kisses are drawn down it, like the wings from a dragonfly, whispering against a child in a school yard.

 

He’s breathing and near as his lips slide around House’s cock. It’s always like the first time for Wilson, as if he is recreating the best birthday from his childhood over and over every time their bodies come together. 

 

It’s rough and gnawing and he can’t get enough. His lips and tongue pulse around House’s member while one hand caresses his balls. His other hand, the fingers slowly, expertly work on House’s entrance, teasing and probing. They’re sliding in and teasing again and again until House is babbling incoherent, pulling his hair, and coming hard and hot down Wilson’s throat. 

 

Wilson claws his way to the top of the bed, brown eyes meeting blue. House’s eyes are fluttering open and shut; he’s beautiful after he’s come. Wilson begins to jerk himself off, feeling House’s hand wrap around his own. Wilson’s eyes gently close, and then he’s coming fast and hot over their intertwined hands.

 

House is asleep by the time Wilson is clean enough to lie down next to him. He wraps his arms around House, and nuzzles into his neck, smiling. He can feel House relaxing against him, his breath soft and even. And as Wilson drifts off to sleep, he can’t help but feel like it is Christmas, even if it’s only mid March.


	34. Pain

There are days when the pain all but shuts him down. Those days, which used to be few and far between, are more frequent now. The mornings where the pain wakes him up, the throbbing in his leg beating in time with his heartbeat. Sitting up to swallow two Vicodin exhausts him and he needs to lay back down until the throbbing is down to a dull roar.

 

Showering is another ordeal. The hot water feels wonderful, but he is overwhelmed by the act of balancing and care not to slip. After, he has to rest once more before he can begin the act of getting dressed. He debates the pros and cons of another Vicodin before his morning coffee and decides to wait just a little longer. 

 

He manages to get dressed, sweating slightly from the exertion. He limps slowly out to the kitchen, where the automated coffee pot has brewed his morning coffee. He gulps it down with two more Vicodin in hopes it will give him the boost he needs to get to work. 

 

He ends up having to sit down again before he can leave. He's sweating again and shaking ever so slightly and despite the excess Vicodin, his leg isn't feeling any less painful.


	35. "Boston, 1985."

"Boston, 1985."

 

Of course, House thought as he discarded the damp newspaper. ‘Of course, that’s where I am.’ He walked (because in his dreams he is whole and complete) through what appeared to be the main doors of St. Eligius hospital. He walked up and down antiseptic smelling corridors, until he very nearly crashed into a tall man, with mangy, curly hair. House blinked several times, thinking that the man looked an awful lot like . . . “Oh sorry, sorry,” the man said before he continued his gallop down the hallway, pager beeping continuously.

 

House woke up slowly, realising the beeping in his dream was his alarm clock. His second thought was a reminder to himself to keep Wilson from choosing the rentals from now on.


	36. Tea and sympathy

House knows everything that goes on in the hospital, despite the fact that not many people bother to talk to him unless they absolutely have to. So, when he finds out that Wilson isn’t seeing patients today, he is able to surmise immediately why. Stressed out Wilson, plus sitting in the rain, equals a sick Wilson.

 

House confirms this by slipping unnoticed out onto their shared balcony to observe Wilson from afar. He watches Wilson tackle a pile of charts, pausing every now and then to sneeze or blow his nose. House can’t see his face directly, only his profile, but knows that Wilson is pale and drawn, and that the tip of his nose is pink. He feels something gnawing at him in the pit of his stomach and tries to silence it by dry swallowing yet another Vicodin.

 

He continues to watch Wilson, until Wilson gets up from his desk and walks out of his office. House heads back into his own office, stopping at his desk momentarily, rummaging through the tsunami known as his desk drawers until he locates what he’s looking for. He then heads to the cafeteria. Wilson is nothing if not predictable.

 

He finds Wilson sitting in the cafeteria, staring into a cup of what he presumes is tea. He dramatically plops down in the chair across from him and regards Wilson with cool eyes. He sees Wilson stiffen at his presence, but this doesn’t keep him from watching him. Wilson’s eyes glaze over as he suddenly succumbs to a fit of sneezes. House raises an eyebrow as he watches Wilson fumble through the pockets of his lab coat. 

 

House takes the tissues he had grabbed from his desk, and hands them toward Wilson. Wilson is still unsuccessfully rifling through his pockets and doesn’t see the gesture until House clears his throat to get his attention. 

 

Wilson takes them gratefully. “Bless you,” House says in a quiet voice usually reserved for small children of idiot parents. 

 

Wilson looks at House as if he has been taken over by pod people. “Umm thank you,” Wilson says, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.

 

“Don’t expect that I’ll actually make a habit of it,” House says sarcastically, reading Wilson’s mind. To prove his point, he continues. “You look like crap.” 

 

Wilson smiles at him. “I don’t feel too badly, just a little congested. I’ll be fine in a couple of . . . “ His statement is cut off by another set of sneezes. 

 

“Bless you again,” House once again quietly says, looking at Wilson out of the corner of his eye. 

 

House watches Wilson as he blows his nose again, and he feels that same gnawing in the pit of his stomach. House rationalises to himself that it must be the hideous breakfast from the cafeteria he scarfed down earlier, because if there is one emotion he doesn’t feel, it’s guilt. 

 

“Thank you. As I was saying I should be fine in a few days,” Wilson states as he studies House. 

 

House’s stomach is really hurting him now, and he looks away from Wilson’s scrutiny. 

 

“What?” He asks House. 

 

House doesn’t make eye contact with Wilson. “Sorry I didn’t give you a ride home yesterday. I figured you were still pissed, so . . .” House’s already too soft voice trails off, as he stands up and steadies himself. 

 

The pain in his stomach has backed off slightly. As he is about to leave, he reaches into his blazer pocket, and tosses a blister pack of pills at Wilson. 

 

“That’s the last of the niceness, so don’t expect any more sympathy,” he calls over his shoulder as he limps out of the cafeteria. He doesn’t need to turn back to know that Wilson is smiling.


End file.
